


No Love Lost

by monsterhugger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Comas - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, the world is not kind to Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterhugger/pseuds/monsterhugger
Summary: Jon is in a coma. If you're asking anyone but Martin, Jon is dead. And Jon is the only person Martin has.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	No Love Lost

Martin knew Jon wasn’t waking up.

“All but brain-dead,” the doctors had told him. It was medically impossible that Jon was even alive at all, let alone that he would ever wake up. Basira and Melanie had visited Jon with him at first, but Martin found himself going alone more and more frequently.

“He just looks so sick,” Basira had told him when he’d asked her to come to the hospital with him. “I’m sorry, Martin, but I just don’t like looking at him when he’s like that.”

“Please,” Martin had whined. “I feel weird going alone.”

“Then don’t go,” Basira had suggested. “It’s not like he’d ever know you stopped coming.”

Martin had teared up when she said that. It was taking less and less to make him tear up lately, there probably hadn’t been a day since Jon fell into his coma that he hadn’t cried.

“Oh, Martin, I didn’t mean it like that,” Basira said.

“No, you’re right,” Martin muttered. “He’s dead. He doesn’t know I’m there. He’s never going to know.”

Martin shuffled out of the room, his hands buried in his coat pockets, trying to get out quickly before Basira could see him cry.

“Going out, Martin?” Melanie asked. Martin jumped when he heard her voice. He hadn’t expected to talk to anyone else. Or wanted to, really.

“Y-yes,” Martin replied. “Just… got a bit of shopping to do. We’re out of tea.”

“I bought you tea three days ago, how much are you drinking?”

“Er… you didn’t buy the kind I like.”

“You’re going to see him, aren’t you.”

“Alright, yes, I’m seeing Jon. I’m sorry.”

“Martin…”

“I _know_ he’s dead! I _know,_ okay? I just wish everyone would stop trying to tell me so I could spend some time with him in peace before… you know.”

“I’m sure they’ll keep him alive as long as you want. No parents, no kids, I think they’ve decided you’re his husband or something. They’re not letting him go without you.”

“God, you mean I’m going to have to kill him?”

“He’s already dead. You just have to decide when you’re going to accept that.”

Martin nodded, wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve before walking out of the Archive and down the chilly London street. He could feel people staring at him as he rode the tube down to the hospital. He recognized some of them, some people in business suits coming home from work. They probably figured he was doing the same, coming home from work every day in tears. Martin didn’t like being stared at, he didn’t like these strangers worrying about him or judging him, but he figured anything he could say would do nothing to make him seem less strange.

The receptionist at the hospital recognized him as well.

“You here for Sims?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at a red-faced and blubbering Martin. Martin nodded, and the receptionist gestured down the hall. He didn’t need to give any directions. Martin knew where Jon’s room was by now.

The nurse tending to Jon recognized him too. She’d stopped giving Martin updates on Jon’s condition after the first month or so, they both knew he wasn’t getting any better and the reports upset Martin more than anything. There was a takeout coffee cup on the bedside table, and the nurse held it out to Martin.

“You like Earl Grey?” she asked. Martin nodded, gingerly taking the cup from her hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “You knew I was coming?”

“Four-thirty every afternoon,” the nurse said with a nod. “At least you’re predictable. It sucks to have to rush through a bath because loved ones are at the door asking to see the patient.”

Martin sipped his tea. It was piping hot, and he barely noticed when it burned his tongue.

“Can I be alone with him?” Martin asked.

“Of course.” The nurse gave him a pitying smile and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She’d stopped trying to tell Martin Jon was dead, but Martin knew she was thinking about it.

Jon looked awful. Martin had stopped trying to convince himself otherwise. His hair was getting more gray than black, he had dark circles under his closed eyes, his skin had turned a sickly colour that made his scars even more obvious. He looked awfully thin, Martin knew he’d been quite skinny before but it couldn’t have been like this.

Martin took Jon’s hand in his own. He held it lightly, scared Jon would crumble at his touch. Jon’s skin was cold. Dead, he was dead, of course his skin was cold. Martin had spent the first few weeks of Jon’s coma resisting the urge to touch him, but he’d given up on that after one particularly bad day, when he’d walked into the hospital audibly sobbing and wanted nothing more than to hold the hand of the man he loved.

It had taken a bit more deterioration before Martin decided to kiss him.

Even when Basira and Melanie were visiting Jon with him, they’d always given Martin a few minutes alone with Jon, and Martin had certainly thought about it then. He couldn’t fathom the thought of facing his coworkers after doing that, so he kept the thought buried. And then Basira and Melanie had refused to come with him, and Martin figured there wasn’t much harm in it now. Yes, corpse germs were certainly a thing, but Jon had spent the last month and a half being hand-bathed in a hospital, so Martin wasn’t worried about getting sick. And maybe Jon wouldn’t like it, but, well, Jon was dead. He’d never know.

Martin lifted Jon’s frail hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss over his knuckles. The first time he’d done it it was almost thrilling, like he’d done something scandalous and someone was about to walk in and catch him in the act. The thrill had almost felt good. It was the only emotion other than crippling sadness he’d felt in weeks. But the thrill had faded after a few days, and now kissing the hand of a dead man was just part of his daily routine. He’d thought about kissing Jon on the lips, but that felt a bit too creepy. Then again, maybe after a few more weeks of letting his mental health go to shit, he’d have no problem with it.

“So, Jon,” Martin said, tracing his finger over all the scars on Jon’s wrist, connecting the dots the worms had left. “Been awhile since we spoke. Since I spoke to you, I suppose.”

Jon didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe. He lay perfectly still in his hospital bed, beautifully dead.

“My mum thinks I’m doing something stupid,” Martin explained. He liked talking to Jon, even if Jon couldn’t talk back. It felt less depressing than just sitting alone with Jon’s body. “She’s asked me twice in the last three days if I’ve been clubbing. Can you imagine that? Me, going clubbing.” Martin chuckled to himself.

“She’s confused,” Martin continued. “Though I supposed not so confused, if she knows I’m doing something stupid. I mean, not that you’re stupid, Jon, not that you aren’t worth spending time with. But you’re dead, aren’t you? You can’t hear me. You don’t know I’m here. You don’t know I love you.”

Martin rubbed his eyes. His glasses were so foggy he could hardly see Jon, and he didn’t wipe them off. He didn’t want to see Jon like this any more than his coworkers did. In fact, maybe he hated it even more than them. The love of his life, lying dead in a hospital bed. Martin wanted to lift Jon out of bed, hold him in his arms and tell him he was sorry. Maybe if he did that, maybe after that he’d be ready to let go. Or maybe he’d just want to keep coming back and holding Jon in his arms every day.

“If you knew I loved you, if you’d known…” Martin trailed off, gripping Jon’s hand a little tighter. “You never liked me very much anyway. If it was me in your place, I doubt you’d be visiting. Hell, you’d probably have let them unplug me by now. I wouldn’t blame you, of course.”

Martin ran his finger over the worm scars that covered Jon’s arm, all the way up to the sleeve of his hospital gown and then back down to his wrist. He did this several times, for all he knew it could have been hours. He tried to look Jon in the eyes, past the fog on his glasses and past Jon’s closed eyelids. It felt wrong to not be able to look him in the eyes. It felt wrong to not be able to crawl into bed with him. It felt wrong that Jon wasn’t going to wake up and join Martin on his way home. Martin held Jon’s hand tightly and cried.

“If you ever wake up, will you come home with me?” Martin asked. “Can we live together, can I finally get a chance to really kiss you? Can you… god, can you just tell me you love me? I know you don’t, I know you won’t and you never did, but I want it to be real so bad. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I-I imagine you next to me. I imagine you… sleeping. Breathing. It’s nice.”

Martin carefully ran a hand through Jon’s hair. It wasn’t as greasy as he thought it would be, he supposed the nurse had been washing it. Good, he thought. They were taking good care of him.

“I have to go, darling,” Martin whispered. “Stay here for me, okay?”

Martin smiled to himself. He didn’t really intend that as a joke, but maybe it felt better if it was.

He pulled the hood of his jacket over his face. People in the waiting room watched him walking by, and Martin wasn’t sure if they could see him crying. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but he did. He considered picking up something to eat on his way home, but he figured he didn’t need to have any more conversations that day. Nothing wrong with his fifth microwaved meal of the week, he supposed. Not like he ever really knew how to cook, but now he barely had the energy to try.

“Martin! Martin, good lord, it’s practically midnight! Where the hell have you been?”

Martin flinched. He took his sweet time hanging his coat up on the rack before turning to face his mother.

“It’s hardly seven, Mum,” he said lightly, hoping if he was gentle enough it wouldn’t earn him any further verbal lashing.

“Some son you are,” his mother hissed. “You think I deserve to eat cold food for dinner, then? You’d let your poor mother eat a raw frozen dinner because you’re not there to help her reach the microwave?”

“I’m sorry,” Martin muttered. He’d been crying when he came in, so maybe it wasn’t so obvious how much his mother’s shouting was hurting him. “Things were running late at work, I’m sorry, I can make you something now.”

“Work, hm?” his mother snapped. “You’re seeing that girl again, aren’t you?”

“Girl? There’s no girl, mother.” _Never will be._

“Good. You’ve clearly got no clue how to take care of a woman.”

Martin sighed, following his mother into the kitchen. He could practically feel her eyes digging into the back of his head as he prepared her dinner. He didn’t make anything for himself. He felt too sick to eat.

He imagined Jon next to him as he slept. He imagined Jon holding him, kissing him, telling him he was a good boyfriend and he didn’t deserve to be shouted at. Martin clutched at his pillow, crying silently into it as he slept.

His mother passed away while he was asleep. Of course Martin felt guilty for not being there with her, even though she’d probably have berated him the whole time. He knew he should do something about the body, but he was already dealing with one corpse and it was just too much for him. He made himself a mug of tea and sat on the couch. He might still have been crying, he could feel his body shaking with sobs but there were no tears.

He recorded a statement at work that day. That was all he knew. He couldn’t remember anything else. He didn’t feel the chilling horror crawling up his body that he usually felt after recording statements. He was numb.

He didn’t leave the Archive that day. He didn’t see Jon. There was no point anyway. Jon was dead.

He’d been sitting at his desk (not Jon’s desk, he’d stopped telling himself it was Jon’s desk and he was just borrowing it) for an hour or so, staring at nothing and playing with the buttons on the tape recorder when he felt Peter in the room. He never actually heard the door open when Peter appeared in the room, he just suddenly became aware that he wasn’t alone. Although it didn’t feel like he wasn’t alone, he was definitely still alone, he just wasn’t the only one in the room anymore.

“All alone, are we?” Peter asked. Martin felt a hand on his shoulder. He shivered, even though the hand wasn’t cold.

“I have you,” Martin replied.

“I don’t count,” Peter said. Martin could hear him smiling.

“Basira and Melanie-”

“Think you’ve been making love to a corpse.”

“They do _not!_ What-why would you say that? Where did you even get that idea?”

“See, I’m not Elias. I don’t _know_ what you’ve been doing. I don’t _know_ what your coworkers are thinking about you. But you’ve definitely been acting a little suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

“I didn’t do _that!_ ”

“No, I didn’t think you did. But those two, they don’t know what to think. They don’t know just how much your grief has changed you. How much I’ve changed you.”

“You’re changing me?”

“Not yet. I like to at least ask permission first, unlike some people.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine. You can have me. Do whatever you want to me.”

“You still want to protect them?”

“For the record, you have no proof they actually think that about me. And frankly… no. I just can’t think of a good reason why you shouldn’t have me. Jon is gone. He doesn’t need me. I wasn’t much good to him when he did need me, to be quite honest. If you say it’ll protect Basira and Melanie, that’s great, but to be honest I don’t care. Do what you want with me.”

Peter’s hand clamped tight onto Martin’s shoulder. Martin’s whole body felt frozen, ice cold and locked into his chair.

“Are you sure?” Peter asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Peter slowly lifted his hand from Martin’s shoulder, and Martin felt like he was melting. Peter had only been touching him for a few moments, but he had the uncanny feeling he had been paralyzed in those moments. That if he tried to move, he’d be trapped. He shuddered, wondering what Peter would have done to him if he refused to hand himself over. He wondered what Peter actually did to him. He felt fine.

Martin stood up, set the tape recorder on the desk, and walked out. He could move freely, or at least he thought he was moving freely. He blinked, and realized his eyes didn’t sting anymore. He didn’t even feel tearful. It was the first time in weeks he did feel like he was on the verge of crying, and that alone felt good. He felt good. Peter hadn’t hurt him, he’d _healed_ him. It didn’t seem possible, but from how he felt, it must have been true.

He walked to the exit of the archives, not passing Basira or Melanie on his way out. It felt good not to have to talk to them. He didn’t want to explain what he’d just done, or where he was going.

He felt much worse when he was outside. The bustling crowds on the streets, the tightly packed bodies on the tube, it made him want to scream. He’d never really done well with crowds, but he felt especially sick now. Not like he wanted to hurt the people surrounding him, though when he thought about that he realized he wouldn’t actually be opposed to it. He just wanted to get away. He had to get away or he was going to be sick.

The tube stopped mercifully and Martin rushed off, stopping in a restroom to catch his breath. He found himself dreading the crowds waiting outside. Finally he took a deep breath and rushed out of the bathroom, out of the station, and down the bustling street toward the hospital. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ran so fast or for so long. Oddly enough, he didn’t even feel out of breath when he reached the hospital. He was just relieved to finally be free of the crowds.

He kept significant distance between himself and the receptionist, nodding quickly when he said his name and dashing down the hall to Jon’s room. The nurse wasn’t there, and Martin was grateful for that. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

Martin kneeled beside Jon’s bed. Being near Jon wasn’t quite as painful as being near other people, but it still didn’t feel as good as he remembered it feeling. He reached out to take Jon’s hand, but his flesh felt strange. Not like he was sick or rotting, but like hands just weren’t something Martin was supposed to be touching. Martin sighed, resting his hands in his lap. He stared at Jon. He wanted to tell Jon what he’d done. It was better than telling anyone else, and part of him thought he had to tell someone. But there was also a part of him that said he shouldn’t talk to anyone about anything, not ever again. Martin tried to ignore it.

“Jon…” he said, his voice shaking. “I did something bad.” Talking felt wrong, like he was about to choke on his tongue.

“I let him take me. Peter-you don’t know him, do you? Peter Lukas, Elias’s replacement. He wanted me to help him save the Archive from something, he told me he could protect Basira and Melanie but… oh, god, I think he’s done something to me. I mean, he has, but… oh, Jon, it’s not good.” His heart was racing. He stood up and took a step back from Jon. That made him feel a little better, but he could still barely breathe.

“Oh, god, Jon I’m so sorry,” Martin cried, clutching his chest and trying to catch his breath. “I can’t stay here. I have to go. I love you, I love you so much, but I just can’t anymore.”

Martin ran out of the room, only half aware that he’d startled the nurse as he ran past her down the hall. The stares of the people in the waiting room cut into him like knives. He sat behind a bush in the hospital parking lot, his hands fisted into his hair. There were no people in the parking lot, which made him feel better. He decided to call a cab to take him home. Being cooped up with the cab driver felt preferable to being cooped up with the crowds on the tube.

Martin felt relieved when he got home and found himself alone. He felt a bit bad about it, though he told himself it wasn’t that he was glad his mother was dead, he was just glad he could walk into his own house without being screamed at. He walked into his living room, the empty house allowing him to breathe for what felt like the first time that day.

Then he noticed his mother’s chair in the corner of the room.

It was completely empty, no sign of a body having been there just that morning. Empty, of course, except for a note sitting on the seat. Martin picked it up. It was written in red ink on elaborate stationary in cursive Martin could barely read.

_I think we’re alone now._

Martin should have felt horrified. He knew it was Peter, he didn’t know what Peter had done with his mother but it couldn’t possibly have been good. Except he wasn’t horrified. He was just relieved, relieved and happy to finally be alone.


End file.
